


Encased

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Best Friends, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Relationship(s), corsets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 15:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a bit of a secret, nothing terrible, just something he particularly enjoys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Encased

**Author's Note:**

> A one-shot with no further plans for expansion. Comments are always welcome.

Sherlock had forgotten to close his bedroom door firmly just one time. The door to his bedroom at 221 B Baker Street had a tendency to swing inward if not pushed not once, but twice before it caught properly. Sherlock had been distracted and pushed the door shut just once. Sherlock was thinking of the case they were working on, it was intriguing. This time there was an abundance of clues, so many in fact that the crime turning out to be fairly complex and terribly interesting. Sherlock was happy.

He needed to change his clothes. They’d been running for three days now and he needed to freshen up. Various tests had been run with results pending; there were no fresh leads to chase so they were using their unexpected window of opportunity to get a bit of a wash in. Sherlock had rushed home and gone straight into the shower. John was heading in there next; Sherlock could hear him upstairs rooting around for clothes. Dropping his robe so he was standing there only in his pants Sherlock quickly dug through a special locked drawer and after only a moment’s thought, pulled out a dark green corset.

It was long to accommodate his narrow frame, the entire thing custom-made and beautiful. Sherlock sighed happily as his fingers trailed over the embossed pattern that made the whalebone look organically incorporated. The panel fit perfectly around Sherlock’s torso. He hummed to himself as he twisted his arms up behind his back to tighten the laces. He preferred the ones in the back even if he couldn’t quite get the lacing done up perfectly on his own. Sherlock admired the lines of his body as he took in his appearance in his full length mirror. That’s also how he saw his bedroom door swing open just as John was heading to the bathroom, right across the hallway.

John stopped dead in his tracks. Sherlock was similarly frozen. The detective didn’t know what to do. This was his secret pleasure, kept carefully guarded from absolutely everybody. Not even Mycroft knew that Sherlock loved to wear corsets beneath his suits. He liked how they hugged him tight, kept his body rigid, and added to the formal grace he knew he possessed when he walked. John’s clean clothes slithered to the floor out of his hands and the doctor turned on his heel and seemed to not realize he had walked right up behind Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn’t see John anymore. He wanted to twist around, to see John’s face but he was too busy dying of sheer mortification as his best friend, his very vanilla, very straight flatmate looked at him standing there in broad daylight wearing a gently gleaming corset and snug black pants. Sherlock’s face was burning and he blushed hotter than ever when he realized his neck, shoulders and probably his entire upper body had flushed as well. Dying on the spot had never seemed so appealing. Why hadn’t he shut the damn door properly?

If the gut-clenching humiliation of being caught wasn’t shocking enough, nothing could have prepared Sherlock to feel John’s small strong hands gently trace a path up the laces that followed Sherlock’s spine. He couldn’t stifle a small gasp of surprise when he felt John tugging at the laces. Suddenly his midriff was perfectly supported and his ribs were neatly bound but Sherlock could still breathe deeply. John tied the bow at the bottom and ran his hands down the lacing one last time. Sherlock shivered because each warm touch just lingered, “I’m heading to the shower. Order some food will you?” 

That was it. John didn’t say or do anything else. He did as he said and went to take a shower. Sherlock got himself dressed at the speed of light, guiltily keeping the shameful corset on because John had touched it and Sherlock didn’t want to remove it now, even if he had been discovered. Still burning with unaccustomed embarrassment Sherlock panicked and ordered enough food for six people, all John’s favorite dishes. Needless to say he got a very pointed look from John when he came back, showered and shaved to find the kitchen table completely covered end to end with take-away containers.

Sherlock’s face was cautiously impassive. He wasn’t going to say anything. John was probably on the verge of packing up and leaving. Body parts in the fridge were one thing but living with your openly-if-not-practicing gay flatmate who wore corsets might not be the situation a loudly confirmed heterosexual ex-army doctor wanted to be in. Instead John just poked around the containers and filled up two plates generously; “Eat at least half.” was all he said before he sat in the front-room and clicked on the telly.

Sherlock was so nerve-wracked he accidentally ate all his food, not stopping until he discovered he was chasing one last piece of rice around feverishly with his chopsticks, his attentions completely scattered. John just got up and took his plate away to the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later with two cups of tea and changed the channel so he could catch the end of a Doctor Who rerun. John was laughing at all the wrong parts the way he always did, “Which was your favorite doctor again?”

“The fifth.” said Sherlock numbly. John was acting normal. He didn’t seem to be acting any different than any other time they were on a short break during a case. Sherlock slowly relaxed into his seat, “I liked the celery.”

“Decorative vegetables.” said John absently, now watching the commercial for some upcoming movie feature involving rather toothy looking aliens. After he finished his tea John took Sherlock’s empty cup, like usual, and returned to the kitchen. Sherlock could hear John putting around, putting the excessive left-overs away.

Sherlock’s mobile chimed. A text, “Molly says the first set of tests is ready.” He got up and strode to his grab his coat. John appeared from the kitchen and just shut everything off without another word before following Sherlock to the street and into a taxi. John sat silently during the entire ride, just looking out the window as he always did. John never got tired of looking at London. When the got to the morgue Sherlock forgot all about his embarrassment as Molly revealed that the fibers he’d found were indeed impregnated with a very particular compound. Sherlock forgot the corset, forgot John, he forgot everything except the case.

It wasn’t until they were being shot at in the wee hours of the morning that Sherlock became starkly aware of John. His friend had suddenly changed from a comforting background presence to an impassable shield that brought pain and regret to anyone he faced. Their suspect, a round and pleasant faced vicar of a small parish, had become, when cornered, a rather savage and merciless killer. He’d already managed to dispose of no less than six members of his own congregation and was trying with devotion to add two more souls to his list. Thanks to John the vicar did not get his wish however Sherlock’s ribs had gotten grazed thanks to a ricochet and the paramedics wanted to take him to emergency so Sherlock could get stitched up, “I’m a doctor. I’ll be taking care of it.” said John brusquely, nearly shoving the earnest attendants away just before they cut open Sherlock’s tightly clinging and now blood-stained shirt.

John shouted at Lestrade for being slow with his team, berated Donovan for listening to Anderson and allowing the vicar to nearly get away, and then shouted at Anderson just on principle until Sherlock took him by the arm and led him gently away. John fumed the entire trip back to the flat. Once they were home John took Sherlock right into the bathroom and helped him out of his shirt. Without saying a word John unlaced the now ruined corset, dropping it into the bathtub so he could check the shallow wound carefully, “Didn’t hit your ribs, still, this is going to sting a lot.”

Sherlock hissed a couple of times as John cleaned every bit as well as he could. It didn’t need stitches but the whole raw looking area was covered with soothing ointments and sealed with a large bandage. Sherlock realized he had his hand on the back of John’s neck, his fingers gripping reflexively each time John caused a bit of pain to flare. John hadn’t stepped away or indicated that Sherlock’s touch was unwelcome so Sherlock left his hand where it was. John always made him feel better and right now Sherlock felt like he needed to be close to his best friend. His ribs ached. A few inches to the side and John wouldn’t have been able to fix Sherlock with some antiseptic wipes and a large plaster.

“This will need to breath, stay in your robe and pants for a couple of days. No cases.” John wasn’t offering Sherlock a choice so the detective just nodded obediently. Sherlock went to his bedroom to change accordingly, already feeling achy. He wasn’t up to running around anywhere. The bruise around the ricochet was making itself known now. By tomorrow it would be painful breathing until the swelling went away and the wound healed a bit.

“I’ve got research to read anyway. I need to catch up.” he offered lamely. John nodded and marched himself to the kitchen to put together left-overs for a fast hot meal. John once again wasn’t giving Sherlock any sort of an option as a steaming plate of food was presented to him. Sherlock took it quietly and began to eat. John clicked on the telly once again and they listened to a program on urban wild-life without comment. When they were done John took Sherlock’s entirely empty plate and spent a few minutes in the kitchen. The doctor was unusually silent. Sherlock half-expected him to return with tea but instead John just gave Sherlock a terse “Goodnight” and went to his room. Well, it was seven in the morning now. John was probably just extra tired.

Sherlock felt depressed for some reason and he wasn’t sure why. Standing up carefully he made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth before bed. He pulled open the curtain to the tub. The corset wasn’t there. Had John binned it? Sherlock couldn’t remember if John had taken anything out to the trash, he didn’t think so. Sherlock brushed his teeth and washed up a bit before going to bed. The corset wasn’t in his room either. John had probably thrown it away. Sherlock sighed regretfully and decided to order a replacement sometime soon, and just went to bed.

John was at the clinic later the next day working an evening shift. Sherlock stayed home as he promised he would, happily working on a surprise scalp that John had left on a plate in the fridge. He must have gone to Bart’s before he’d gone to work. Sherlock had been engrossed in several articles that had used his website “The Science of Deduction” as one of their sources and hadn’t noticed John leaving or arriving. If John hadn’t made a point of telling Sherlock he was going to work Sherlock might not have known that either.

Sherlock thought about that. He didn’t mean to forget that John wasn’t always there. He just didn’t like to think about it so he filtered it out of his consciousness and just talked to John as if he were present twenty-four hours a day seven days a week. It made Sherlock feel good knowing his blogger was watching him. John’s attentions were always filled with admiration and affection. Sherlock didn’t notice anymore how he preened, and blushed the tiniest bit whenever John complimented him in public because the sparkle in John’s eyes always distracted the detective. Putting thoughts of John’s remarkably blue eyes out of his head Sherlock went back to cutting the scalp into small observable pieces.

It was almost two weeks before Sherlock could put a corset on with comfort. The ragged wound had left behind a pink and rough scar that John had checked twice a day until he pronounced it healed. Sherlock eagerly went through his locked drawer and extracted a pale blue corset. This one was more elastic and less rigid than the now missing green corset. Sherlock had ordered a replacement but it took time to make and his supplier had promised to ship it the second it was ready. This one came with matching pants and almost guiltily Sherlock slipped them on. The blue one was more than fine though and Sherlock laced himself into it quickly. He couldn’t quite get the fit exactly right but it was close enough and he felt good as he buttoned up his shirt and pulled on his coat.

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from swanning around the flat, reveling in the feel of being bound again. He didn’t notice John standing in the kitchen; he was at work wasn’t he? With a happy smile Sherlock lifted his arms high to stretch and winced as the last tendrils of stiffness from his ribs made him lower them slowly. He nearly jumped when John’s voice cut through the silence, “Still pinching a bit yeah? Come on then, buttons open.”

Sherlock stood there with flaming face as John walked from the kitchen to stand directly in front of him. John’s face wasn’t any different than normal, just concerned that Sherlock was still experiencing discomfort. Sherlock’s hands came up and he undid his shirt buttons without pause. It wasn’t until John was pushing it off his shoulders did the detective realize what he had done. “Turn a bit.” Sherlock obeyed again, turning around so John could reach his back. Once again his small strong hands tugged the lacing, adjusting everything so Sherlock’s sore ribs once again felt painless and the corset sat perfectly on his hips. Once the bow was tied John just said, “I’ve got to get the shopping done. Try not to mess the place up.”

John just pulled on his coat and left Sherlock standing there in his trousers and corset, his shirt hanging from his fingers, almost entirely forgotten. Sherlock was having a hard time breathing now that the doctor had gone. His back was on fire, each touch of John’s fingers lingered! What was happening?

Sherlock suddenly pulled his shirt on, buttoned up and tugged on his coat. He couldn’t be here. It was too confusing. John was always a surprise but for this, well, Sherlock didn’t know what to make of this. Why was John so accepting of the corset? Why did Sherlock STILL feel John’s hands on his back? The bow at the bottom seemed hot too, Sherlock was very aware of it now because John had smoothed it down, using the flat of his palm, warm and rough at the same time.

Sherlock ran away. He hit the streets and kept himself busy until the wee hours of the morning when John most certainly could not be awake. When the detective crept home all the lights were out and there was nothing but silence. Relieved he slipped into his bedroom and peeled off his clothes, readying for bed.

John’s shouts startled him. John’s nightmares hadn’t troubled him for so long but now he was shouting with absolute terror and Sherlock didn’t think. He bolted up the stairs and knelt beside John’s bed immediately, “John, you’re safe. John, you’re home. John, I’m here. It’s me John, it’s Sherlock. John, you’re safe. It’s alright John. You can wake up now.”

John had been balled up in the center of the bed, his hands clenched into bloodless fists as his teeth clenched together to try to keep his night terrors in. As soon as Sherlock began to speak his hands relaxed and John slowly uncurled. By the time Sherlock told him to wake up his eyes opened smoothly and latched onto his flatmates. With something close to a sob John brokenly called out, “Sherlock!”

Sherlock could not resist the unspoken request. Climbing under the blanket with John the detective held his small friend and let him tremble against him. John’s hand swept nervously up and down Sherlock’s back until his fingers found the laces to the corset. Then his hand simply followed the corset up and down Sherlock’s spine, toying with the bow before moving back up until John’s hand stopped moving entirely. The doctor was asleep.

Sherlock didn’t intend to sleep as well but as soon as John’s hand stopped moving Sherlock was out like a light. They stayed that way until dawn, both men holding the other tightly, breathing each other in. Their legs shifted until Sherlock was draped over John protectively and John was nestled inside Sherlock’s limbs, snoring softly, his fingers still firmly pressed against the laces of Sherlock’s corset.

It was the beginning of a new habit with the strange pair. The small man had even gone out and found a corset that was safe for Sherlock to sleep in. It was soft and golden. Sherlock loved wearing it because it reminded him of John and felt like he was being hugged every minute he wore it. John would help Sherlock get into his every-day corset when required and Sherlock would wear his new one to bed on the many nights he slept with John. It seemed to comfort the soldier. They never spoke of the changes, simply going to sleep in their own bed or the others, depending on if they were too lazy to walk one more flight of stairs before calling it a night. John was warm and toasty to sleep with and the smaller man seemed to respond well to having Sherlock crush him in the night like a human duvet. His nightmares had ceased and John always woke cheerful and happy.

It was completely innocent for weeks. Their lives were much the same, they worked cases, John occasionally worked at the hospital, and they bickered about body parts in the fridge. They shared their personal space more and more until John almost never went upstairs anymore. Most of his clothes had wandered into Sherlock’s wardrobe and ownership of socks seemed to be irrelevant. Everything changed with a dream.

Sherlock loved being warm. He was cold all the time and instinctively tended toward anything that would heat him up again. He wore thick heavy clothes, slept under a heap of blankets and lately, on top of John Watson. That was the situation they were in when Sherlock had an erotic dream.

The dream itself was hazy, all scents and colors, sensations and urges. Sherlock wasn’t aware that he had grown long and hard, or that he was rutting gently against John’s backside. His body was writhing gently as his hips rocked softly, digging inward to increase the friction even as he snored. John’s head was beneath Sherlock’s face and he breathed the soldier’s scent deep, his subconscious weaving it into his dream until Sherlock was hungry for more. He tasted; his mouth opening to lick at the back of John’s neck, snuffling softly as he mumbled in his sleep. It was John’s moan that woke him.

Sherlock froze, his cock pressed between the cheeks of John’s ass despite their pajama bottoms, throbbing and aching. John’s hand reached back suddenly to grip Sherlock’s hip and his hoarse voice softly said, “Bloody hell don’t stop!”

Sherlock was stunned but his body was not. Reflexively he drew back and rocked downward again, wringing another groan from John as his shaft slide across the more sensitive parts of John’s behind. Sherlock pushed his pants down the second John tugged at the waist, and helped John pull his down as well. Saliva served to slick Sherlock’s cock as he slipped it back between John’s ass cheeks again, resuming his slow steady thrusts. Mouth sucking lightly at John’s neck Sherlock’s body seemed to know what to do as he rocked with varying speeds, his cock sliding over John’s hole over and over again as the smaller man pushed back and panted along with him. 

John’s arm began to move and Sherlock realized he was getting himself off. Sherlock didn’t want that so he pushed John’s hand away and replaced it with his own. John’s cock was shorter than Sherlock’s but it filled his hand perfectly. John’s moans grew frantic sounding, “Harder!” gasped the doctor. “Please. So close!”

Sherlock wasn’t going to last. Desperately he braced himself and began to fuck between John’s ass cheeks with determination, now almost lying fully on John, his hand wedged between the man and the mattress as he tugged and pulled. John’s hips began to twist and swirl, shoving back hard and Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore. With no warning his orgasm slammed into him and he released all over John’s back, hot spurts of come landing on John’s pajama top as well as leaking back down his crack and off to the sides.

Sherlock realized his hand was filled with sticky wetness and that John was shaking lightly beneath him, struggling to regain his breath. Managing to shift to the side Sherlock wiped his hand on his discarded pajama pants and lay there, exhausted. John was still sprawled out on his stomach, the come turning clear as it trickled off of him. Sherlock had never seen a sight that stirred him more. John was beautiful like this.

John stayed splayed like that for only a minute, “Wipe me up a bit, yeah?” Sherlock used his pajama pants again and cleaned John off carefully so the doctor could roll over. John immediately snuggled into Sherlock’s arms and seemed to drift off again. Only his hand wandering over the whalebone of Sherlock’s corset showed that he was still awake.

“John?” Sherlock was very unsure how to navigate this new situation. He turned to the one person who could explain it to him, “John what are we doing?”

“Spending the rest of our lives together?” said John sleepily. His arm was growing lax, he was definitely falling asleep.

“Oh.” that wasn’t exactly the answer Sherlock had been anticipating but it seemed to cover everything, “Alright then.” After a few minutes of serious consideration Sherlock nuzzled the top of John’s head, “John?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too Sherlock. M’sleeping.” he was. John was all the way out again, a small smile on his face. Sherlock smiled too. It was always nice when John cleared these little life-matters up for Sherlock. This was all going to work out very nicely, very nicely indeed. Hugging his lover close Sherlock closed his eyes and let himself drift off to sleep again, wondering if the next dream he had would end so wonderfully.

 


End file.
